Confessions
by BohemianTwinkle
Summary: “I don’t trust myself to paint anymore,”


Written one night when I discovered how bad raspberry lemonade tastes on it's own. Nothing is mine as I've said every other time.  
  
I may have missed the boat completely with Toulouse, on this one as well.  
  
*!*  
  
It had been four years since the opening night of Spectacular Spectacular where Satine died in Christian's arms.  
  
So much had changed in the Village of sin; the Bohemian Revolution had long since died out and the Moulin Rouge nightclub doors had been boarded up and closed for months after a weak attempt at revival. Most of the whores had moved out into the streets, struggling through the days and nights to survive. The painters, writers and musicians once known as 'The children of the Revolution' had moved on to other cities of the world, searching for new fortunes. Now only two remained.  
  
The penniless poet and the drunken dwarf. Christian and Toulouse.  
  
They had kept together forever after the dark days that fell after the brief light of Spectacular Spectacular. Toulouse had listened to the endless hours of Christian's mourning and comforted him as best he could. Christian, in turn, had endured the consistent nightly visits of the green fairy to Toulouse and his alcohol-induced violent rages.  
  
Together they had become bound to one another through grief, understanding, pain and the ever passing, time.  
  
They spoke little to each other; they preferred their days to be passed in silence with only the world's natural noises passing them by. They resided in silence because music and singing voices reminded them too much of the life they once lived. Although when they did speak, it was always of fickle things, philosophical things and mostly, confessions.  
  
It was like that on the day that marked the fourth year since their worlds fell apart. Christian sat in his favoured place up on the windowsill and Toulouse sat on his stool, staring at a blank canvas, starved of inspiration.  
  
Christian took a swig of the green bottle he held while Toulouse sipped green luminous liquid from a dirty glass, cringing as he did so.  
  
"Too sour today?" Christian commented, more than questioned, "Have I overdone it with the sugar again?"  
  
"No, I just hate Absinthe altogether," Toulouse shook his head, sucking the residue from his hollows of his cheeks.  
  
"Yet you drink it like it's your life blood and have had numerous affairs with the fairy," Christian replied skeptically, with mild amusement.  
  
"I've got an addiction, that's all,"  
  
"One that's gone on for years, why don't you give it up?" Christian pointed out.  
  
"I feel a hole without my fairy, I feel like something is missing," Toulouse shrugged.  
  
"It will kill you, then your life will be missing,"  
  
"Yes, well, that's inevitable now," Toulouse said quietly removing his gaze from the liquid contained in his glass.  
  
"You sound so pessimistic for the Toulouse I used to know," Christian observed idly.  
  
"I'd say the same to you," Toulouse replied quickly.  
  
They held a moment of silence to stop themselves from saying things about the past they might regret. Christian broke their eye contact and turned to look out the window, downing another gulp of his bottle's contents.  
  
"Are you going to paint something or not?" Christian asked promptly, not turning back from the window.  
  
"I don't think I can," Toulouse replied softly, with a shiver in his voice.  
  
"Why not,"  
  
"I don't trust myself to paint anymore,"  
  
Christian raised his eyebrows softly as he watched the street below, it was coming, he thought, the first confession of the morning.  
  
"Because you're scared of what you might place on canvas?" he asked simply.  
  
"Petrified."  
  
"What would you paint?" Christian asked, he felt he knew the answer and supposed he didn't need to ask the question.  
  
"My fairy," Toulouse whispered a shuddery reply and Christian finally became aware that Toulouse was beginning to become very nervous.  
  
"Since when have you been scared of her?" he asked, he ignored Toulouse's nervousness, he had become like that; frail and sensitive from years of alcohol and drug consumption.  
  
"Since you became scared of Satine," Toulouse replied quickly. Christian bit his lip instinctly.  
  
"I'm not scared of her," he replied almost darkly.  
  
"You told me last night you were, said she haunted your dreams instead of graced them,"  
  
"I was drunk last night," Christian said as his teeth gritted slightly.  
  
"You're drunk now," Toulouse retorted and took a sip of his glass, "I feel so sick," he added, like a child that had eaten too many boiled sweets, before Christian could say anything more.  
  
"Stop drinking then,"  
  
There was another silence between them as Toulouse tried to keep down the liquid he'd just swallowed. It burned and stung his throat; it made his chest ache violently, it sent tingles through his legs. He felt distanced from his surroundings.  
  
He got up awkwardly from his stool and lent heavily on his cane for support. He hobbled over to Christian, weaving through the sea of paint tubes and sheets of paper that littered the floor.  
  
"How long do you think I've got left here?" he asked thoughtfully and hoisted himself up on the windowsill beside Christian.  
  
Christian didn't answer.  
  
"What would you do if I fell out this window Christian? What would you do without me?" Toulouse went on, in the same thoughtful voice.  
  
Christian still didn't answer.  
  
"I don't want to be slave to my fairy anymore, Christian, I'm too tired too," Toulouse said exhaustedly.  
  
Christian took in the last sip of his bottle and remained silent.  
  
"What would you do Christian?"  
  
He trailed off airily and averted his gaze down at the deserted street below. He kept his eyes on the black pavement as it rose up and came closer and closer to him, faster and faster. He watched it until the blackness flooded his eyes and he felt no more.  
  
Christian looked sombrely down to where Toulouse had landed, his stormy eyes hiding any thoughts he was having. He looked at the form of Toulouse and clutched his empty bottle tightly as he thought up his reply to his friend's final question. What would he do?  
  
"Follow," he whispered.  
  
A soft, shattering sound echoed down the street as an empty bottle collided with the pavement. 


End file.
